


Never Sated

by elfmedicine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:31:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfmedicine/pseuds/elfmedicine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘The lyrium screamed at him inside his veins, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.’ </p>
<p>Cullen and his decision to quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Conclave

The sounds of steel and people dying echoed across the Frostback Mountains. Unnatural green light shone from the breach down on the valley where Cullen and his men were making their stand, the spill of demons from the rift seemingly endless.

Another demon spellcaster burst from the ground, hissing as it rounded on a nearby solider. Cullen could feel the air tense as the creature’s fire magic gathered, feel it in his very blood shouting a warning to him. But his reserves were almost out; terrible panic flared in his chest as his holy smite sputtered and died in his hands. Cursing, Cullen quickly decapitated an advancing shade before groping inside his pack for yet another lyrium bottle.

The blue slipped down his throat and he was the one on _fire_ now, punching out his smite with terrible force, the demon spellcaster shrieking with fury as it’s power was stripped away. The solider – Cullen recognised him as Luke now he saw his face, a good man, _thank the Maker he still lives, please stay alive I can’t bear to the thought of telling yet another family_ – let out a strangled yell as he charged forward and caved in the fiend’s jaw with his shield.

Panting, Cullen whipped round for the next onslaught, trying to ignore the painful pressure in his veins. The sign of too much lyrium, but what was he to do about it? The beasts kept on coming and his people, try as he might, kept on dying. No matter how much lyrium he consumed the magic pulsing from the rift seemed utterly alien to him, beyond any magic he had ever encountered. Pain filled the air, but it wasn’t just coming from the death around him – the tear in the sky was so charged with _wrongness_ , Cullen couldn’t see how it could ever be healed.

Hope was trickling away from him as one by one the soldiers around him fell. Where was this woman who had apparently stepped out of the fade? What could one person do against all this madness, anyway? The more the demons raged and the sky spread further apart, the more the idea of any kind of saviour seemed futile, childish even.

He had already pledged Cassandra his support if things were to go badly at the Conclave, but Maker... who could have foreseen this? He had felt as though Andraste herself had been guiding him, gently nudging him away from Kirkwall and the Templars, towards real change that he knew somehow had to happen. But someone had beaten them to it, and now the Divine was dead.

And they were all going to follow her.

Just as the thought tickled the last stretches of Cullen’s limits, a cry came from across the battlefield behind him. He sensed two powerful sources of magic before he turned; a band of four fighters charged into the fray, filling those still standing with renewed hope and vigour. Cullen barely had time to notice Lady Cassandra before he saw a female mage hot on her heels. Her face was ablaze with fury as she threw herself into the thick of the battle, recklessly putting herself in front of Luke (his far superior armour none withstanding). _What is she wearing, a padded jumper?_ Cullen gritted his teeth and willed the terror bearing down on him to just hurry up and die already, so he can go save another trigger-happy fledgling mage.

Then he saw her practised handling of her staff, felt the power coming off her (what in Andraste’s name was that?) and then saw the green light splitting across her left palm. Realisation jolted; this woman has just stepped out of the fade, and lived.

The terror took advantage of Cullen’s distraction by sweeping his feet out from under him. He cursed as he bit his tongue, head smacking against the frozen ground. _Keep it together._ He tried to marshal his last vestiges of stamina and regain his footing, but the creature pounced on him and prepared to bite.

He heard a shout of anger and felt the spell coming, felt the prisoner use her electric bolt to shock her target and felt as it jumped into every nearby enemy. He saw the terror’s hideous face spasm, giving him the pause he needed to finish off the foul creature with his dagger. The bone-deep relief he felt at having a mage join the fray was strong, loathe though he was to admit it, even to himself. He got to his feet and swung his greatsword at the next foe. And the next, trying to keep his eyes from the mage with the glowing hand.

It seemed to glow more viciously as she became more enraged, a righteous kind of anger swimming across the battle, reassuring Cullen that she was far from abomination-bait. _For now, at least._

Suddenly the fight was turning, the mage elf was shouting for her to seal it, and quickly – Cullen almost stupidly shouted out “seal what?” before the prisoner thrust her left hand into the green horror that was the rift. A yell died in Cullen’s throat as the air itself shifted, the diseased pockets shuddering and collapsing into the centre, the rift itself screaming in agony. Then she frowned in concentration and _twisted_ , somehow pulling her hand free with an almighty _BANG_.

Cullen was almost thrown off his feet as the air rushed in then suddenly out again, filling the air with cool, clear breathable space for the first time in hours. The rift was sealed, mended, clean again. He stared agog at the prisoner; she had just _healed the sky_ , there was no other word for it – though it paled in comparison to what he just witnessed. That was healing, akin to the uncomfortable task of breaking a bone in order to set it properly, or purging a wound so it can knit together cleanly. But on a monumental scale. How had she _done_ that?

Cullen had never seen such a visual representation of how magic felt to him before. _Or maybe I’m losing my mind_. That was more likely. But the astonished expressions on everyone else’s faces led him to think it wasn’t just he who witnessed that … that spectacle.

The prisoner braced her hands against her knees, panting. Cullen barely noticed the last few wraiths whimper and disappear. That much magical power near him, beyond scope or any kind of prior context, was making his fingers itch for his lyrium pack. _You have to be ready you have to be better you know how powerful they can be_ \- he couldn’t take his eyes off her hand, still glowing slightly. The lyrium screamed at him inside his veins, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Cullen shook aside his thoughts and tried to catch his breath. He surveyed the scene; so many dead bodies littered the floor… when had so many people died? Luke was alive, at least; leaning on his sword and giving him a bewildered sort of smile. A few others of his had made it, and the four who had just joined: Cassandra, the dwarf captive/informant she had mentioned; an elf who must be the other mage he had first sensed and, of course, the prisoner.

He did a quick self-check: his blood thumped and a headache was blossoming at the base of his skull, but he was alive. No major injuries, even – but he was beginning to pay for the amount of lyrium he had taken. He sheathed his sword to hide his shaking hands, the magic in the air only adding to his skittishness. Willing the pressure in his blood to abate, he found he could not look at the prisoner suddenly, for fear of the anger and grief all tumbling out. So much death, so many died screaming in the snow, and for what? The bloodlust inside him was turning stale; helpless fury was taking its place, begging for some kind of outlet as the sky raged above.

So he ignored the prisoner with the miraculous ( _terrifying_ ) hand and thanked Lady Cassandra instead.

“Do not congratulate me Commander, this is the prisoners doing.” she replied, rather pointedly. That surprised him. The last time he saw her, Cassandra seethed at the mere mention of the prisoner. He wasn’t completely blind, he saw what the mage had just done, but couldn’t Cassandra feel the power emanating off this one woman? Couldn’t she feel the danger? Moreover, couldn’t she see the sky breaking above and the bodies heaped on the ground at their feet?

“Is it?” he snapped and rounded on the mage, eyes boring into hers, her magical presence stinging him anew. “I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

She sighed a little ruefully, giving him an odd look. “They're not the only ones hoping that.” She sounded raw, and possibly even more exhausted than he.

“We'll see soon enough, won't we?” Cullen said, his voice bitter to his own ears. But she was no longer looking at him, but across to the nightmarish breach of reality that she was somehow suppose to fix. Cullen gathered his thoughts enough to give her decent directions across the ruins of the Temple, feeling all the more hopeless as he did so. He paused before adding: “Maker watch over you, for all our sakes.”

Her eyes snapped back to his and softened slightly. She nodded and hitched her staff up her back; the determination on her face was something to behold. Then the moment was broken and they were off, Lady Cassandra giving him a conspiratorial look as she passed. Cullen watched them leave, conflicting thoughts raging around his brain. Even through the fear, grief and exhaustion (not to mention the excess lyrium still tearing through him) the truth of what he had just witnessed finally forced the last of Cullen’s prejudices aside. For the first time since the Divine died, faith kindled within him once more. The image of their silhouettes against the fade-bled sky was something Cullen never forgot.

 

*


	2. Addict

For the briefest moment, the ungodly explosion from the breach made Cullen sure that the world had ended. The sound alone made his bones and teeth rattle, the entire earth shake; the flash of green light, stronger than the sun, seared and dazed even as he threw his arm up to shield his eyes.

But the explosion had to end and – instead of an onslaught of yet more demons (though Cullen hated his own imagination for supplying the imagery) hoisting trophies of the dead prisoner and the others on their heads as proof of certain doom – the skies started to calm and quieten. The evil green poison in the air was fading, fingers retracting, becoming a less horrific tinge somehow. It didn’t dissipate completely as the smaller rift had, but the hostile magic in the atmosphere sliced in half; Cullen bit back a groan of relief as the pressure in his veins lessened.

He turned to his remaining men and saw his own feelings mirrored back at him: disbelief, fear, dawning joy as the victory was starting to set in… _but what of the prisoner? What of Lady Cassandra, Leliana and the rest?_ Cullen’s attention snapped back to the remains of the Temple of Ashes, his hawk-like eyes scanning for the smallest movement –

_There._ Figures moving through the rubble. Glints of armour and a dark smudge that had to be Cassandra’s hair. And then – a figure was being held aloft by some of the men _– unconscious or…?_ As they came closer Cullen saw the reverent way they were carrying her and his heart seized for a moment.

Then he saw Cassandra’s face and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. _Thank the Maker._ Some people found Cassandra hard to read, but Cullen always found it easy to tell the difference between her vast itinerary of scowls. This one had a ring of triumph to it.

They shared a look between warriors before Cullen’s gaze slipped to the prisoner. Her face was slack and sweaty – and completely different from what he remembered. Without the heat of battle and the blazing fury on her face, she simply looked young and vulnerable. Bruises were beginning to bloom across her delicate features. Cullen couldn’t understand how her face hadn’t been caved in, but then it was always that way with mages. He would be a fool to judge this woman’s strength based on her looks alone.

After all, she had done this… _she has saved us all_ , Cullen thought dazedly as the prisoner was escorted past. The world had started to rip apart, and they had been sent a soul – a mage, no less – that seemed to have a way to fix it, just as all seemed lost. If that didn’t taste of divine intervention, Cullen didn’t know what did.

_And what wise words did you have to contribute? What did_ you _have to say to her as she departed? Would you have said the same to a non-mage?_  Cullen winced in shame at the memory. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? Hadn’t he just left the Templars? Had he learnt nothing at all from Kirkwall? When it came down to it he was still a scared little boy in overlarge armour, waiting to blindly follow his next order.

_No. That’s not true._ _Not anymore, not since Meredith_.

Exhaustion fell over Cullen like a physical weight. Pain shot across his face as he realised that he had been clenching his jaw; he slowly unclamped it and willed himself to relax, rubbing the muscles with gloved fingers. His hand was shaking, he noted.

With that realisation, the abundance of lyrium in his system crashed through his senses, almost robbing him of his wits. Relief at the victory was stripped from him as his veins filled with fire: _more. Need more._

He’d had too much, overextended himself. Thinking he wouldn’t live to feel the after-effects, it hadn’t seemed important at the time. Now Cullen’s legs were buckling. He drew his sword and stabbed the ground underfoot, grasping it heavily with two hands, disguising his lean as a mark of respect for the last troops from the breach walking by. His men all nodded approval; fresh self-loathing washed over Cullen at the sight.

Then at last they were all leaving, moving to follow the prisoner’s procession. He took the opportunity to fall back and slip by without their notice.

He found a spot under a tree mostly free from snow and finally sank to the ground in relief, allowing the tremors to take hold of him while he couldn’t be seen.

If he were honest with himself, sneaking off to find a private moment away from his men was a talent of his. As it should be, considering the regularly in which he did it. Back in Kirkwall and even Kinloch he had no need for it of course, there was no shame between Templars. Dosing was even encouraged to do together, openly; Cullen had always swallowed the line of it being for their own good, to keep tracks on their dosage. Now he was beginning to realise it was probably to make sure you weren’t skipping. _Keeping the leash tight._

All these memories, all these snatches of time that made up Cullen’s views of the world – yet another one tainted, the lies to keep him in check exposed. Cullen’s head felt like a jumble of facts and fictions that he had only just started to pick apart.

His hands moved to his pack on autopilot, mind so full of questions that he only snapped back to the present when he felt only _one_ remaining bottle of pre-prepared lyrium left –

_What? That can’t be right –_

He scrabbled in his pack, desperately hoping it wasn’t true, but –

Panic coursed through him, hot and strong and more terrifying than anything else he felt all day. Utterly unreasonable considering all that had befell them: the demons, the sky, the soldiers he had lost that lay _dead_ in the snow – of all the things to really panic about, and he chose _this_. Some hero he was.

A choked gasp escaped Cullen as the realisation hit, sagging on his heels on the frozen ground. This is what he had been reduced to. He knew he didn’t need another hit, but he had stretched his limits and the – the _thirst_ was clawing at his neck, begging for relief. This was dangerous.

He compared himself to his men and found himself severely lacking. _Some ex-Templar I turned out to be._

A light bloomed in Cullen’s head. A thought, an unbearably painful thought, nudged at his consciousness, warring with the overwhelming impulse to just down the bottle and _never ever think of it –_

Cullen moaned, fingers withdrawing from the glass –

_Impossible. Can’t be done –_

Hands gripped his hair as he bowed forwards, fear lancing through him –

_Do not think of it. You are not strong enough – no one is –_

But it couldn’t be denied. The truth forced its way through him.

_How can I possibly escape the Order’s vice if I don’t give up lyrium?_

It felt like a physical tear in his chest to think it, finally. It had been dancing around his mind, out of reach, for some time now. The unbearable burden of what he must do was unavoidable, if he wanted to continue down this path. _Become my own man - or run back, tail between my legs._ He felt sick at the thought.

The way to him was finally clear, his own cowardice unable to shield it from him any longer.

His mother had never wanted the Templar life for him, and never more had it been clearer than when the topic of lyrium came up. He never discovered how she knew about Templars and their lyrium (being quite a close-kept secret amongst their ranks… though mages surely all knew, it dawned on Cullen). Then again, when he was younger his mother had always seemed to know everything.   _Filthy stuff_ , she'd say, _even some mages don't go near it and have you heard of the dwarfs who touch it and go mad?_ Then Mia had cried and he had spent what felt like hours trying to convince them both that he would be fine, the bravest knights in all the land would be looking out for him, and he would be careful with it. They had made him promise. Cullen was never more grateful for that than he was now; if he hadn't had their anxious faces in his mind when the other Templar trainees had tried to pressure him into being a ‘man’ - keeping up with them and their lyrium highs on those long boring dormitory nights, their so-called ‘bonding sessions’ – he might well be shaking more than he was now. He had been taking note of Templars around and above his age. He had seen the tells: the shakes, the erratic tempers, the fatigue… even the memory loss starts to show. How long before he was useless, before no one other than the Templars would have him?

Meredith had always been generous with lyrium increase requests, encouraging of them even. There was always some trouble, some apostate or rebel clan, some _reason_ to take the edge off with a bit extra, another hit. _I'll cut down soon_ , he'd tell himself as he’d reach for his wooden box and swallow his shame, _once things have calmed down and I can_ think _. Soon._ But of course that never happened, and now even on his 'good' days he was a six-a-day man. Six! When in Andraste's name had that happened? What his sister would think if she knew, he shuddered to think.

It was painful to think of his family. The ever-present guilt was there. He had meant to finish and actually send a letter out to Mia before he came to the Conclave, had been meaning to do it for weeks ( _months_ ) now, but he always seemed to forget… and they were the oldest now, the heads of the family. He knew he was being selfish, but he couldn’t think of her, couldn’t put quill to parchment without his parent’s faces springing to mind: disappointed and rotting, victims of the darkspawn. He tried to push it away – thoughts of the Blight and all that happened were never welcome in Cullen’s mind – but they refused to shift. Thirsty fingers crept up his throat.

For the first time in his life, Cullen noticed his need for the blue escalating as thoughts of his parents and of his grief consumed him.

He pulled out his last bottle and stared, idly twirling it between his fingers. He knew every inch of its shape and surface, as he did of all the bottles he possessed. Funny how that fact seemed more disturbing the longer he was with regular, addiction-free soldiers.  How the order’s… idiosyncrasies seemed more apparent, more damaging, more like the chains they actually were.

He was starting to feel a little dim-witted that it had taken him so long to realise this. Slumped in the snow, if anybody had happened upon him at that moment, they would have seen a man looking like he’d just tasted water for the first time, or who had just seen his first sunset.

His eyes shone with almost religious fervour as the last bits of truth slid into place, as the horrific – and probably lethal – challenge settled on his shoulders. But no matter how he looked at this, what was the alternative? What would he become if he shied from this?

_Meredith_. With her sickly red tinge by the end and fanatic gleam in her eyes, the gleam that had started to remind him of Uldred staring at him through behind the barrier, smiling. Always smiling.

The old fear, his worst fear, clamped around him suddenly and he stood up on instinct. He was not still in that tower, he could move and stand up if he wished – and if he could bloody well survive that hellish ordeal then he could stand the memories of it.

The idea frightened Cullen more than he would ever admit to anyone. His nightmares were bad enough without Uldred making a guest appearance. Without seeing his old friends die again, helpless and unable to do anything other than shout and beg…

And, and then the demon… his desire and his deepest shame…

Before Cullen knew what he was doing, his thumb had popped the cork open and lyrium filled his mouth.

He felt a split-second of peace before his mind caught up with his actions. He spat and snarledand the bottle ended up falling from his hands in an angry yet undecided jerk. The blue dribbled down his chin and it took all his willpower not to lick his lips, a gloved hand wiping the substance away aggressively.  He stared as the snow turned blue and melted around where it lay on the ground.

He was a failure already.

Not five minutes after his epiphany and he was dosing again? He could not be trusted. Let alone with what he knew – what he thought he knew, but Cullen wasn’t entirely stupid, not when it came to war – Cassandra wanted of him. What he wanted of himself. He looked up at the diseased sky and wondered at his own weakness.

Dejected, Cullen tried to rally himself. He took out his empty bottles one by one, holding them in his hands, trying not to make it a caress. He picked up one – his favourite one with the red cork – and smashed it against a nearby tree. The tinkling of the delicate glass breaking was satisfying to hear; Cullen did it again, then again until they were all smashed and his hands were empty. _There_ , he thought, _that’s better._ _That’s decided then. No more._

_Not demolishing your kit box though …_ Cullen shook aside the thought, trying to ignore the sting. _Precautions_ , he told himself. Throwing away everything would be foolishness; he didn’t know how he would need to come down off of this, what was safe. Once he knew what he was doing it would be different. _He_ would be different.

Maybe steering away from certain… memories would be best for now. _You can’t hide from them forever,_ a nasty inner voice whispered as he cringed away from thoughts of cold floors and fading screams.

But there was a war going on, what could be the greatest war Thedas had ever seen. Cullen had a job to do, and the time for self-indulgence had passed.

He tried to make his stride purposeful as he walked away.

 

*

 

 


	3. Comrades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the gorgeous BrownWater2112 for the grammar beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
>  
> 
> *

“I know I don’t need to remind you of our situation, Commander. The circumstances are dire.”

Cassandra could always be counted on to give it to you straight Cullen thought, almost amused. There was no denying she told it true.

“You do not. What do you need from me?”

A flicker of something like worry passed across her face. “Isn’t it obvious? We need a force, an army to be reckoned with – one that can withstand pressure from the Chantry and be capable of controlling the mages. Who better than you to lead them?”

Of course he had known this was coming. Their letter correspondence had, after all, alluded to this if the peace talks went sour. Well they had indeed spoiled – but no one, not even Cullen, fresh from the disasters that befell Kirkwall, ever expected the rotten fruit to explode so spectacularly. Without the Divine to spearhead them and give them the credence they so desperately needed to gather their forces, the task she lay before him was another animal altogether.

They were sheltered in Haven’s chantry for the time being, deep in the bowels near the cells with a few candle stubs flickering light across Cassandra’s grim, determined face. They had rustled up a couple of half-broken stools to give their battle-weary legs a respite but Cullen, Templar trained or no, was having a very hard time not fidgeting.

Two hours.

Two hours since his last dose. He didn’t even need to see the sun to tell him that, his body was telling him loud and clear. It had started as a mildly annoying mutter but was slowly working its way up to a dull roar.

He tried to concentrate on Cassandra.

“How is the prisoner?”                                                               

Her answering frown was mostly concern, but he could tell she had picked up on his deflection. “Still unconscious. It may be some time before she awakes… I can’t imagine how it must have felt for her to -” she broke off, squeezing her eyes shut to the memory. Cullen could only imagine what it must have been like, to witness that. Seeing the prisoner heal the far smaller rift had almost knocked him for six as it was. “I only hope she wakes-”

“She will.” He interrupted, the faith in his voice surprising even himself slightly.

“Then you do believe?” she implored, dark eyes widening. “You believe this course of action is just?”

“Of course. That’s never been in any question-”

“Even with her being a mage?”                                                                                                                     

Cullen felt like she had slapped him in the face. He deserved that, of course. “Yes, even so-“

“Then _what is it_ , Cullen?”                   

He jolted at the sound of his own name. It wasn’t something he heard very often any more, and for Cassandra to drop the formalities, she must be either very serious or – unlikely as it was – very scared.

Cullen sighed, trying to think of how he could best voice his shame. It was difficult. He picked hardened wax off the little table between them before forcing himself to stop. He clasped his hands together in his lap, took a deep breath. Tried to speak and snapped his mouth shut on inferior words, pathetic self-pitying phrases.

“ _Commander_.”

“Right! I …” he looked at her face, at the impatient but caring eyes, and blurted: “I’m not the man you need.”

She blinked slowly and continued to stare at him. As if waiting for the punchline.

For the millionth time Cullen wished that the Maker had seen fit to bless him with the gift of comedy; he longed to deflect the attention off himself and ease what he was about to say with an easy quip. _Not that it would help me much here, let’s be_ _honest_ , he thought as his eyes darted back to her unrelenting stare.

“I ... I have made the decision … that is, I have  -“ he cleared his throat and fixed his gaze upon a stain on the table, unconsciously resuming his wax picking, “- I must confess that I may not – will likely not – be up to the task. I know this is probably the worst possible timing, but I - I have decided t-to give up lyrium.” It sounded unbelievable to his own ears.

A pause, then something happened that was the last thing Cullen would have ever thought to suspect – he felt her fingers gently grasp his gauntleted wrist. This was not a caress, or anything approaching romantic – this was compassion.

His eyes snapped up to hers and he could hardly bear the respect he saw there.

“Don’t you see, Commander?” Her voice had never been so soft. “ _This_ proves more than anything that you are the one we need.”

Baffled, Cullen began to argue but she cut him off immediately: “Commander, think about it. You are not blind to the faults of the Chantry. Maybe you once were, but you see – as I do – the need for true change. I will not lie to you – I have always found the lyrium leash they force on you Templars to be unnecessarily cruel. I commend this course of action.”

Warmth spread through him at her words, but he bit down on it savagely. _No pride for you._ “You cannot be so naïve - surely there are other, more experienced commanders out there with no monkeys on their backs-”

“- give yourself some credit. I need someone who understands the whole picture, Cullen – someone who knows both the worth and the risk of mages. Now more than ever.” A small sigh. “More importantly, I need someone I can trust. That is you.”

Cullen hung his head, unable to meet her eyes. “Cassandra, I don’t know if I even trust myself right now …”

“You can. You _will_.” Her hand was back at his wrist again. He looked up and felt unworthy of the respect on her face. Then she suddenly snapped back to her usual self and continued practically: “Besides, being useful will be a crucial distraction for you. I’ll make you so busy you won’t even have time to remember your monkey.”

A ghost of a smile crossed both their faces.

“How are you dosing, then? If you’d rather not say, I underst-“

“No, that’s quite alright. I’m not. Dosing, I mean. I don’t want to touch it again if I can help it.”

“Commander, that may be unwise.” A touch of worry to her voice now. “Phasing it out of your system is supposed to be safer-“

“Oh? And who suggests that?” Cullen hadn’t really thought of this reasoning before. In truth, he didn’t trust himself around it at all, not after his performance in the woods. When it came down to it, Cullen was very much an all-or-nothing type of person.

But Cassandra paused, looked thoughtful. “Hmm, you may have a point there. More research is needed into the whole subject, I think. You know I have sometimes wondered about the Seeker’s training…”

They talked more for a time, confided in each other in small ways: she spoke of her fear of the Chantry’s response, he of his guilty squirrelling away of his kitbox (which she approved of, to his surprise: “we have to be prepared for everything, Commander”). In the end he agreed to be the Commander for the Inquisition as long as Cassandra promised to watch him and replace him at the first sign it were needed.

Both were surprised to find their hearts lighter as they ascended the stairs of the Chantry, back to face duty and responsibility. Cullen hadn’t a true friend in too long a time, hadn’t let himself. But with Cassandra he found it hard to be so guarded. Or she saw through him. Either way, he was profoundly grateful.

Later that day, he nailed the official Inquisition parchment to the Chantry door with a grim sense of pride.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Got a little sidetracked here - the friendship between Cullen and Cassandra is so wonderful, bless their little emotionally constipated socks.
> 
> There will be Cullen/Trevelyan romance eventually! I should really retag this as super slow build. Whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my dear EndlessForms101. Thank you for giving me the encouragement and confidence to do this - and for introducing me to Dragon Age in the first place! Aaah, what a gift. I am forever in your debt.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm a bit rusty so apologies for any mistakes, any feedback would be really appreciated. One of my favourite aspects of the games is Cullen's character progression throughout, and his storyline in DAI to break from the Templars and quit lyrium absolutely floored me. His comment about quitting once he joined the Inquisition was intriguing, so... this happened. I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible, simply because I love the material. This hasn't done it justice, but it was fun! More to come.


End file.
